Eyes of Gold, Lips of Red
by Hino Akai
Summary: Chichiri has endured many odd things in his fight for his miko against the warriors of Seiryu. This might just be the oddest, and the most enlightening. Nongag, rated for alternate lifestyles and language, ChiTas with others on the side.
1. A Different Man

_Authors note: Hey guys! This is my first attempt at Fushigi Yuugi fanfiction. I'm probably getting in way over my head. -light laugh- I welcome everyone to read as long as the content doesn't offend you, and I welcome everyone to give their input on what I need to improve on, and who's OOC. A thousand thanks, and huggles to all!_

_Warnings: Shounen-ai (not so obvious in this first chapter, but it'll be worse later on), Slight language later (oh what am I talking about... where there is red-haired banditness, there is profanity), absolute ignoring of any timeline beyond episode, oh... 22 or 23, slight OOCness (I'll tell you exactly who later), screwing with canon, absolute oddness, some innuendo and sexual references (nothing terribly bad), rating might be bumped later_

_Disclaimer: Oh, how I wish I owned Chichiri! -fangirl sigh- It'd be wonderful to have the real one to use as a painting reference. -paints Chichiri as a hobby-_

Eyes of Gold, Lips of Red

Chapter 1: A Different Man

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_I pray to my lord Seiryu for the strength to conquer all who stand before me… Come to me, my god, and guide my hand to strike down your enemy!'_

'_No!'_

'_CHICHIRI!'_

"Tasuki!"

Whoever it was that once said that seeing through one eye was more effective than seeing through two due to focus clarification was wrong. Horribly horribly wrong. And a certain blue-haired Suzaku seishi felt this wrongness as he toppled over the side of a bed, vision hazy and depth perception way off due to a combination of having only his right eye to work with, being newly-awake, and having what felt like a mild fever. Chichiri groaned softly, cheek pressed against something that seemed half soft, and half scratchy, like a worn blanket. His head was killing him, vision still not coming into focus, and it felt like he had temple bells ringing in his ears. To be honest… He wasn't a happy seishi.

"Don' move, alright? Yer gonna be feeling that one fer a while without movin' an' makin' it worse."

Ah… There was something that made Chichiri happy. A voice, warm and slightly husky, with gentle accented undertones. The gentle hands lifting him off of the floor and into arms that were strong and protective with a warm, firm chest to match made him happy too. They reminded him of something or someone, and he was content.

Then he was forced to wonder where in the name of Suzaku's tail feathers he was. His vision was steadily creeping into clarity, revealing the vague outlines of objects rather than the blobs of color he was seeing before. From this vague, outline-y perspective, it looked like he was in a room. Probably belonging to the person that was holding him. He opened his mouth, seeking to ask that person where his room was located, and if they could direct him to Hotohori's palace.

Then he scared himself, because the noise that came out was most certainly NOT a voice, more like a harsh croak. That usually implied bad things, and with the patchy bits of memory coming back to him in spastic trickles of enlightenment, it implied very bad things. If he had just been fighting Nakago (and winning, for once), he should not be in this room, with its carefully painted walls and extremely comfortable inhabitant.

Granted, he didn't mind the beautiful walls with the image of a phoenix and the outlines of eight people and the wonderful inhabitant, but he still shouldn't be there.

"Hold on a minute. Yer throat's probably dry."

Again, that wonderful voice. Now, however, instead of being neatly held against a body that smelled vaguely of spice and smoke, he was picked up and cradled almost lovingly, then set on the (very very soft, he now noticed) bed he had fallen off of. Despite the situation, he couldn't help admiring the strength of his mysterious companion. When set down, he didn't bother shifting, instead staying on his back and watching with something akin to delight as the intricate details of the painted ceiling came into proper clarity. Another phoenix, though, thanks to the blue dragon curled into a corner and apparently snarling at the fiery bird, he had a sneaky suspicion it was meant to be Suzaku. However, as his head was still throbbing like Nuriko had just walloped him, he didn't attempt to look around.

Well… Maybe not AROUND… More like at the person currently doing something off to his left. Could he really be blamed for wanting to see them?

"Open yer mouth."

Chichiri automatically did as told, opening pale lips and dry mouth. He didn't react much when something cold and wet was slipped between said pale, chapped lips. He assumed it was ice, but wasn't EXACTLY sure. All he knew was that it was moist, and the liquid felt good trickling down his throat. What was that phrase Tasuki used…? 'Dryer than an 80-year old virgin'? Yeah, that was the one. And speaking of the red-haired one, he might have a run for his money with this one, as the man next to him (it took him a minute to figure out, but that voice was DEFINITELY male) had fiery-toned hair to rival the bandit's. How could he tell? Simple; even with bad vision it was pretty easy to see the glaring crimson at the corner of his vision.

"W-where am I?"

His voice caused him to wince even though it had gotten better with the liquid. Oh well, his question still came out, and that was pretty much all that mattered. Once he found out where he was, he could figure out how to get home. He had wandered enough to probably at least know the general direction of Hotohori's palace. Then he could get home and check on everyone. Check on Tasuki, most importantly, as last he checked his foul-mouthed companion was bleeding a bit seriously on the battlefield.

"My room, university dorms, Tokyo."

"Tokyo, no da…?"

That had to be the worst news the monk had received in a while. He actually knew what Tokyo was, and that was only thanks to Miaka. If you hear about something from your priestess-from-another-world that you haven't heard about anywhere else, it's safe to say it's in another world. Which means Nakago tore a hole in their reality and chucked him out. Lovely. Just wonderful, really. It was only through a stroke of luck that he had landed in Miaka's world, where he had a possibility of using her method to get home.

Something seemed to be going his way for once, as figuring that out was easy enough. Now, just to introduce himself and gain help from his apparent rescuer. Apparently he didn't look pleased, as a lightly calloused hand reached out to gently encase his. Not that he minded. It was a nice hand, just like the nice voice and the nice arms and the very nice chest. Thank goodness for being a servant of Suzaku, as being a monk for the God of Love and Fire didn't require a vow of chastity, unlike the other gods.

"Are ya alright 'Chiri?"

'Chiri?

Why would he be called 'Chiri in that slightly rough, incredibly appealing voice? Only one person in the world called him 'Chiri. And (he was slightly reluctant to admit this) that person was the most important in the world to him, though he had no idea. Why, however, would he be here?

"… Tasuki, no da?"

Chichiri muttered quietly, throat aching and head pounding. Despite the pain, he turned his head and was met with a sight that shot a bolt of warm relief to his core. There Tasuki sat, red hair shining in a thin beam of sunlight peeking through a set of barely-opened, intricately designed curtains. His golden eyes were half-lidded, smoldering lightly and watching him with an expression that was nothing short of affectionate, if worried. Full, slightly red lips were twisted into a faint frown that the monk immediately wanted to wipe away so he could see that burning smile and those (again, he was slightly reluctant to admit) adorable fangs.

"Tasuki? Who's that? M' name's Genrou."


	2. A Different World

_Well, here we are at the second chapter, with 26 hits and 1 review. I'm doing better than expected!_

_Warnings: Shounen-ai (-we're getting there... -slightly plotting giggle), Slight language later (oh what am I talking about... where there is red-haired banditness, there is profanity), absolute ignoring of any timeline beyond episode, oh... 22 or 23, slight OOCness (if you don't figure it out on your own, I'll tell you later), screwing with canon, absolute oddness, some innuendo and sexual references (and really horrible euphemisms), rating might be bumped later_

_Disclaimer: Oh, how I wish I owned Chichiri! -fangirl sigh- It'd be wonderful to have the real one to use as a painting reference. -paints Chichiri as a hobby-_

Eyes of Gold, Lips of Red

Chapter 2: A Different World

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"Genrou. Your name is Genrou, no da. I know your name is Genrou. Miaka told me. Said that you fooled them when they asked who Tasuki was by using that name. Don't use it with me Tasuki."

Chichiri couldn't help feeling a little frantic, sitting up. His previous ailments seemed to have melted away in the light of this surreal situation. What was going on? Why was his heart throbbing in his chest so? This was the mikos' world. Tasuki shouldn't be here, and he shouldn't be calling himself Genrou. Therefore, his harsh tone when speaking to the redhead bandit was forgiven. Only one person noted the sudden dropping of the 'no da' and it certainly wasn't the one who usually spoke the odd phrase.

"Ya shouldn' do tha'."

'Genrou' frowned a little, free hand coming up to gently push Chichiri back down. He seemed just as troubled as Chichiri, lips drawn into said vague frown and golden eyes lightly narrowed. Somehow, throughout the exchange, his fingers had laced themselves with the other male's, their palms pressed together in a manner that was almost teasing with its brushing promise of their bodies fitting together like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. If Chichiri noticed, he wasn't commenting, eye slightly wide and lips pressed into a tight, pale line.

"Stop playing with me Tasuki, it's not funny. Where is Miaka? You must have come with her. Did you defeat Nakago? Was Mitsukake able to heal you without trou—mmph!"

Apparently that was the point 'Genrou' couldn't take any more, as he leaned forward to press his lips gently against Chichiri's. It really wasn't unpleasant on either end, despite the situation. It only took a moment for the cerulean-haired monk to calm down, body slipping into a more relaxed state. 'Genrou's lips were the stuff of legend, soft and smooth with a taste of something cool and sweet. Pity it only lasted a few seconds before 'Genrou' pulled back, golden eyes glinting lightly as he leaned back into the sunbeam.

"I'm not playin'. M' name's Kou Genrou. I'm nineteen years old an' go ta an arts college. I don' know anyone named Miaka, or Nakago, or Mitsukake. An' I'm kinda scared ta ask why I would need ta be healed."

The redhead grinned, one elongated canine poking out at the corner of his mouth. Poor Chichiri was gaping a bit at this point, mouth slightly parted as he blinked in confusion. After a moment he recovered, tilting his head and frowning at Genrou.

"If you're not Tasuki, why do you call me 'Chiri, no da?"

"I've always dreamed a you, an' I always called you 'Chiri in m' dreams. Sure, I called ya Chichiri a few times, but only when ya were bleeding."

"Are you sure it was me, no da?"

"Same speech patterns tha' confuse th' life outta me, same weird-ass hair tha's actually kinda hot when ya get used ta it, an' same wonky eye ya usually cover up wi' some stupid mask."

Chichiri froze, free hand coming up to where the scar over his left eye was. Obviously, he had just noticed the absence of his mask. And, also a terribly obvious fact was the discomfort he was experiencing because of said absence now that he was aware of it. Genrou just watched him for a moment before brushing the fingers of the hand not already wound with Chichiri's across the other man's cheek, the action definitely loving. That caused the blue-haired one to stop, looking at him with something like confusion.

"Yer more attractive without it, really."

It was at that point that Chichiri started blushing, a light tinge of red spreading across pale cheeks. He averted his gaze, looking instead at their hands meshing together on the bed. Genrou's skin seemed to glow golden against his own ivory flesh, both tones a huge contrast to the blue bed sheets. It was only with careful scrutiny he actually noticed differences between Genrou's hands and his Tasuki's. Rather than calluses on the pads of all fingers and the palm of his right hand where the tessen pressed into flesh, Genrou had the patches of roughened, thickened skin in a ring around his left thumb, at the pads of his right index finger and thumb, and at the knuckle of his right middle finger. Odd places for calluses, really. It made him wonder what the other male did to cause such odd formations.

"Daaaa… You really aren't my Tasuki… He wouldn't say something like that…"

That pulled a grin from the redhead, hand that had stroked Chichiri's cheek now moving to ruffle his bangs lightly. Somehow or another, the monk sensed a breakthrough; a wall had fallen between them and their hearts had moved together in some odd way. Perhaps it was the final realization that Tasuki truly wasn't there, perhaps not. Either way, the nervous tension that had been building suddenly dropped away like the water in a sink after the plug is removed.

"Well, now tha' we've got tha' whole Tasuki-an'-I'm-not-him thing worked out, are ya hungry?"

Chichiri blinked lightly, on the brink of saying he wasn't. And then his stomach grumbled loudly and Genrou nearly fell over laughing. The blush returned, lighting up the face of the well seishi. By this point, denying it would be pretty much useless.

"Maybe a bit, no da…"

"A bit m' foot. Yer half-starved if yer stomach's tellin' th' truth."

The bandit look-alike grinned before bringing Chichiri's hand to his lips and kissing it gently. The seishi went wide-eyed, blush deepening as he looked away. It was with all the willpower he possessed that he forced himself not to look at Genrou as the other one dropped his hand gently and stood. Granted, it was pretty much useless in the end due to the fact Genrou reached out to grab the monk's chin and make one crimson eye meet two golden ones, but it was the effort that counted.

"Hey, don' look away from me, kay?"

He smiled gently before waving a hand towards a small pile of clothes folded on a nearby chair. New levels of blushy-brightness were reached at that point, as 'Chiri finally realized that his clothes were nearly nonexistent. It was only through crazy amounts of luck that his 'monk's staff'(1) wasn't hanging out. Genrou seemed horribly amused at this, holding back snickers.

"Yeah, well, now tha' ya see th' state of yer own clothes, ya can borrow some of mine. I'll be in th' kitchen."

Chichiri made sure not to look at him as he left, instead opting to scurry over to the clothes once Genrou had closed the door. The clothes were on him even faster than he had moved to them, undergoing investigation at the first possible opportunity. They weren't at all uncomfortable despite the fact they were a mite too big, but they were odd (to his eyes at least) and consisted of thick pants made of a rough material that pooled in reluctant folds around his ankles, and a soft white shirt with sleeves that hung past his hands. It actually took him longer to adjust his clothing than it took him to put it on, but the result was worth it. He was clothed, he could move… and he was still hungry.

Now that he was confident in his appearance (for the most part; his mask was still missing), he had no problem walking to the door, opening it and wandering curiously into the rest of this unfamiliar world.

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_(1) O-mi-gawd, that one was SO not my fault. My friend came up with the euphemism, I just couldn't think of anything better. -spazzes out-_


	3. Side Effects May Include Panicking

_Whoo! It has been an incredibly long time since I've done anything with this story! Thanks to QuantumMelody for unknowingly kicking my tail into gear on it again! 3_

_Please pardon any changes in writing style or characterization between this chapter and the last. It has been a very, VERY long time. Please review if you've any comments or constructive crit!_

_Disclaimer: Don't own, really I don't. _

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"Missin'? How the hell could he be missin'? He was on the damn field with us! Fighting with that blond bastard! How the hell do ya lose someone when they're standing right the hell in front of ya?"

Tasuki was not usually one to panic. Overreact, maybe, but outright panicking tended to be something that embarrassed him. It was showing too much weakness, displaying vulnerabilities people could use to topple you from whatever place in the world you had clawed your way to. So he tended to leave panicking off of his list of 'ways that I could react to whatever the hell someone just did or said'.

Unfortunately, when he woke up to find himself bandaged and Miaka waiting to tell him about how Chichiri was missing (oh, she was so worried and maybe he was waiting to pull one of his grand tricks?) and no one knew how or where he had gone (there was only the tiniest bit of blood that might not have been his and no body, no tracks, no trails to follow so there was no way to know what on earth happened because of that awful wind and light), this list was discarded in favor of the natural response.

While Miaka continued to try to inform and comfort him at the same time (we thought you'd want to know since you've been asleep three days now and you like to talk to him when you're bored and we're sure he'll come back soon so you can talk we just don't know how or when or if he really will), his heart pounded and a lump formed in his throat. No body. No blood. No trail to follow. He had been only a few meters away when 'Chiri had supposedly disappeared. There was a wind that smelled of old paper and mold and an almost blinding flash. It got fuzzy after that, probably because of the gaping wound and staggering blood loss he was suffering from at the time.

What could have happened? Did the blast tear him into so many pieces that there WAS no body or blood beyond what few drops might have splattered before? Did he use his kasa to escape just in the nick of time?

"... Tasuki..."

The red-haired male only noticed he was holding his breath in anxiety and not acting at all like he should when Miaka said his name ever so gently, placing her small, pale hand over his larger one where he clenched it in the bedsheets. There were times he wished his priestess wasn't so perceptive under her ditzy surface. He wished that she hadn't already seen through his ruse, didn't already know the source of his panic. Thank Suzaku that they were alone, that she had come by herself instead of trailing Tamahome and Hotohori and Nuriko behind her as she was prone to doing.

"We'll find him. We will. He's strong and so are you."

The priestess slid her free hand under the bandit's, providing a lifeline while Tasuki put away the feelings no one else was supposed to know about, the emotions that he just knew would lead him to ruin if the object of them ever found out.

He exhaled deeply, pulling on his usual smirk and bopping Miaka under the chin. She smiled almost uneasily as she watched him swing his legs over the side of the bed, toes curling as they met the cold tile floor. His stomach chose that moment to make a noise of empty discontent, grumbling loudly.

"Stop makin' that damn face woman. The monk'll be fine, wily bastard. Now what the hell does a guy have to do to get a bite to eat around here?"

Chichiri wasn't the only one who wore a mask.

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Chichiri stepped out of the painted room into a living room that was bland in comparison, white walls bare except for a few hanging scrolls and framed paintings. He arched a brow, the contrast between the lovingly painted room he woke up in and this new territory almost shocking. It was almost like no one lived there, were it not for the sparse decorations and bookshelves against one wall. The low table was even worn down enough to suggest that it might have seen quite a few owners before ending up in its present home where someone just left it one day. It was a sad table. An oh-so-very-sad table.

"There's a look for ya. Whatcha thinkin' about?"

Genrou flashed a winning smile with just a hint of pointy canine as he leaned against the doorway to the kitchen. It took a great deal of effort to hold down a blush on Chichiri's part, blood trying its damnedest to pool in his cheeks even as he willed his heart to slow and steady. The fight was lost when he noted what the red-head wore and thought about how good it might look on Tasuki with all of his fight and motion. Not that the open black shirt and light blue pants of the same material as his own didn't look good on the bandit's calmer double. Oh most definitely not.

"This room, no da... It's not as..."

"Fancy? Well-loved? Decorated? Interestin'? Go ahead, I've heard them all. M' friends like to bitch at me for it. Ask if I can make painting my bedroom a school-approved project, why can't I get clearance for the living room that all of them have to look at."

"... I was going to say 'colorful', no da. But the others are more than adequate as well."

Genrou actually went faintly red and rolled his eyes. It took him only a few steps to close the distance between the two men, either a testament to his stride or to the tiny size of the room. Chichiri couldn't think as the smell of another's flesh crowded the air around him and his lungs seized. It wasn't something he was used to, though it wasn't exactly unpleasant. The feeling of being pinned between wall and another's body wasn't either, even if it did make him slightly nervous because he was the slightest bit shorter than the one who had him pinned.

"Shit... This is really, really hard..."

'The monk jumped as a red-haired head dropped onto his shoulder and arms slipped around his waist, holding him tight enough to feel the hammering of the other's heart against his own. His lungs forgot how to work again, only functioning in the appropriate manner after he forced them to do so.

"D-daaa? What're you talking about?"

The groan that served as a response, even muffled in his shoulder, was not completely comforting. 'Chiri was struck with a sudden wish that he had devoted himself slightly less to keeping an eagle eye on Miaka (Tamahome or not) and slightly more to human interaction as it existed post-Kouran. He had never been so close to even her, respecting the boundaries that exist before the actual marriage.

"Not jumpin' ya. I've known ya m' whole damn life and now you're here and I can't do anything because ya don' know me. I know everythin' about you it feels like. How ya taste, how ya smell, what noises ya make, how to tell when you're nervous. And now-"

Genrou blinked and looked up when Chichiri put a finger over his lips to hush him. Gold met red as the taller man gave the seishi a questioning look.

"Food, then you can explain all of this to me. My apologies for making things so difficult, but I can't do much about it if I'm clueless about the situation, can I?"


End file.
